


Empty Halls

by welcometolotr



Series: The Distant Ages [9]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Palantír(i), Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcometolotr/pseuds/welcometolotr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor spends too much time hiding in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Halls

            In the calmest, coolest corner of what had been a cavernous entry hall to a grand estate, an elf was crouched over a pale white glow. He had his knees pulled up almost to his chin, his butt on the floor, and his back to the seam between two blue marble walls, cramped up in direct contrast to the echoing space around him. Dust drifted through silver light above him, motes alighting on ragged and rotting curtains.

            The elf had seen this hall in all its grandeur, in its first years, its peak, and its grandiose last days, but he spared no thoughts on its decline from his spot off to the side. Rather, his concentration was focused on the orb in his hands. At rest, it was usually silvery, with a look to it akin to the shimmery miruvor that his grandfather had once been so proud to serve at his table. Little galaxies could sometimes be glimpsed in its depths, and if he pretended he was cloud watching he could find shapes in the nebulous constellations.

            But between his fingers, the orb shone purest white, and he saw fields and corridors and trees instead of the Void. He watched old memories pass by, precious and blended, faces coming to the fore and shining happily at him. He never recalled the dark ones in his orb, because those were the kind he kept at the forefront of his mind forever and always. He was familiar with his guilt. It was contentment and nostalgia that he often had trouble eliciting.

            He would do this for a few hours before pulling his will out of the stone. Long experience had taught him that seeing such dreamlike recollections of the happy past would later be exchanged for despair. It wasn’t sorrow for lost times, but rather the truth that as he was, he could do nothing to gain such happiness once more.

            His stone flickered again, highlighting the pale veins of his long fingers. He needed to care for his nails, he noted, and then threw away the thought immediately. It didn’t matter. Elrond had asked to be visited, and so had Elros, but the elf sitting in the hall had no concept of how long had it been. The concealed valley was difficult for him to find; often it disappeared from his ken completely, as it did in the minds of those of evil aims. The last time he had found his way to Imladris, twins had been born, he thought.

            Twins were always there. He knew he often saw pairs where there were none, but it was usually not difficult to discern how grounded in reality he was, and therefore whether or not the second face existed. He didn’t know whether the twins in Imladris were real, because he left almost immediately, and when he tried to turn back at the end of the valley he found himself on the banks of the Bruinen facing the opposite direction of his intent.

            The orb flickered, drawing his eyes to two Elroses. Or was it two Elronds? An Elurin and an afterimage? He’d seen the portraits of Elwing’s brothers once. Maedhros had procured it to show the men, in order to find children in the woods. But why do you need the faces, he’d thought, to find the only elflings around? Surely there is one set. Are there more? He had kept silent. There were too many tears and screams that would have found his open mouth and escaped.

            The elf looked up and clasped his stone to a bony chest. All was silent around him, the cheery, active shine of the palantír at odds with a place where time seemed to have stopped. His long bangs were tangled over his eyes, but he searched the ceilings for stars through gaps in the black mass. There were stars on the marble and stars in the sky, and all he wanted was a time when the only stars in sight were those embroidered onto the tunics of his brothers. The light flashed and warmed, and he perked his ears and tilted his head, as if listening for a voice in the cool pre-dawn light.

_You should return, cousin. Leave the ruins and seek that which still flourishes. It is well past time you resume making yourself useful, Macalaurë, and if you dislike the idea of returning to Lord Elrond then there are several squads here in Lothlórien that need more men. You cannot waste away._

            The elf let out a low breath. “Alatariel.”

            He had been hoping for something impossible, he supposed. His gaze floated across the room to the tall open doorway that was slowly lighting up with pinks and yellows. Bracing a hand on the floor, he pushed himself up on what he wished were rickety old bones. But no, they were firm and strong, and he was as able as he was on the day that he scared a young maiden into leaping off of a balcony. He straightened his back and began walking to the door, sending whirls of dust motes into the air.

            Arriving at the old lintel, shifted off position by the passing of time and gravity, he paused, blinking as the dawn light hit his eyes. The elf leaned on the doorway, watching for anything out of the ordinary in the ruined city that opened up before him, looking by this point almost identical to the natural sprawl of a rocky plain. There was activity out here, small animals moving from stone to stone in search of early worms.

            He might as well answer, he supposed. “You’ve bothered me enough. I’m on my way, though I hope you don’t expect me to bring an armory, or anything besides a wooden flute.” He got the sense that his cousin was rolling her eyes at him.

_Do not parrot rumors at me. I imagine you listen at inns for news about yourself. The wandering minstrel, tracking the tides, the last of the Oathtakers? Few care anymore, and the only expectation they will have for you is to look appropriately ragged. I suspect that you will not have trouble in that department._

_Contact me when you have reached a destination. Show up in my hall without warning and I will dose you with a laxative._

            The elf couldn’t help it. He laughed. Goodness, why had he been wasting all of his time alone when he had such loving family? He looked down and found that the hand without a stone was fisted, long nails tearing crescents into his palm. He deserved, wanted none of it. He belonged in that empty hall, in the ruins of his youth. He belonged on cold flagstones and under old carven stars and surrounded by dust younger than he was. He was a weight to the living, the one that remained.

            He walked out the door.


End file.
